From thick decades,
memory emerges, with
miniscule shames and sins,
to taunt and accuse again.
Laced like briars between
raw sinew and bone,
the castigating voice
scratches and pricks.
Unable to forget, thus forgive,
all the awkward trespasses
harbored in memory
claw their way free,
like lizards from eggs,
hungry and ready to feed.
(January 31, 2019)
“Love is the root of everything….Love, or the lack of it.”
— Fred Rogers
like glass resonant in trembled anger
the fear is outrageous and constant
one horrific event erases the next
in an infinite succession of bomb blasts
bludgeoning attention to a bloody slurry
only the noise of the moment matters
and it does not matter even then
but only in the silence it creates in you
the silence of the possibility of dissent
so one must learn to hear without
hearing deafly to see again without
seeing blindly to go with open trust
across the shattered shards of glass
onward into the darkening night
(June 23, 2018)
A thick malaise slurs
the day with inarticulate
desires. There is nothing
but dissatisfaction beneath
each prime move. He slips
about the house finding solace
in unread books, in thoughts
of what he might have done.
The pointed questions come:
Why he dawdles over trivialities?
Why he quakes a pauper to his ideals?
Will the last glass of wine be his cause?
Will the safety of his status quo
be the death and guilt of all?
(June 18, 2018)
A deep resonance in waves
flows through my walls
as if they did not exist;
and, I am set atremble
like the wings of a butterfly
on a bit of Queen Anne’s Lace.
Thus fear inculcates the normal
day to day rituals, casually,
like friends meeting for lunch.
I cannot control my shaking.
I have become thin glass
singing in harmony
with the tremulous cacophony;
until I shatter like ice.
(April 29 2018)
Some nights—too often now—I wake
Shouting, flailing from worry
Of someone lurking behind a fence—
Someone who claims to be no one
Who, when I wake to darkness again,
Is correct, if not mistaken—
I cannot find solace in sleep.
On the margins of the night, she sits
And knits in a rocking chair singing,
Weaving stories into the air. She’s not
Singing for me. Yet, I cannot speak
In dreams anymore. Night bruises
The day until my skin is broken
And blood spills as if in sacrifice.
(December 31, 2017)